


Poor Loser

by Unsentimentalf



Series: The Sherlock/John/Moriarty series [3]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Some day some cocky little crook is going to want payback. Seems today that's you. Just don't pretend you're doing anything original.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Poor Loser

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [This is Going to be Fun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/135535) and [Nobody Dead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/138832)"

The last thing that John wanted to see as he walked out of the surgery was the familiar car gliding up to the kerb.

He walked straight past. A few seconds later it was there again, pulled up just ahead of him. It was ten minutes walk to the tube station. Before five were up he'd had enough.

He yanked the back door of the car open. A young man this time; he felt an instant of disappointment. Mycroft's usual assistant was at least intriguing company. Pleasant smile, of course. "Doctor Watson."

John toned his snarl down a little. The boy was doubtless only doing his job. "Tell your employer that I've had a busy day, I'm tired and just want to get home. He can talk to me some other time."

Hopefully never. John knew exactly what Mycroft wanted to discuss, and he didn't. He and Sherlock were doing just fine.

"There are points failures on the Bakerloo Line and congestion on the Victoria Line. We will have you home quicker and in more comfort than the alternatives, Doctor." The man's voice was deep, despite his age, friendly, and the smile reached his eyes. "A few minutes only."

John glanced along the busy pavement. A lift home did sound enticing. He'd just stonewall Sherlock's brother if necessary. "A few minutes, then. And he shouldn"t think that he can do this any time he wants."

The smart young man offered a hand. "Stephen", then neatly diverted it to move John's bag under his feet.

"Somehow I hadn't imagined that doctors still had bags like this. Does it have a stethoscope, or do you use something electronic these days?"

"We still have those, yes. I'd be lost without it. " As he settled into his seat John was rather regretting his refusal of the handshake. This was after all a favour, even if unwanted and with Mycroft's usual ulterior motives. He tried a smile back at Stephen. "There's electronics in there too, but much of it would be easily recognised by a doctor 50 years ago."

"I guess for all that cutting edge medicine, there's still a lot about people that doesn't change." Stephen seemed happy to chat about modern medicine for the half hour that the drive took, through the centre of London and out to the North. John was trying to watch where they were going as well as making small talk, but somewhere around Kentish Town they took the back streets and he was lost. Sherlock would know, of course. They could be barely two miles or so from home.

The car pulled into a narrow street, waited for electronic gates to open. On the other side was a small square of high Edwardian houses, all facing around a tiny park of trees and grass. The car took a slope down into an empty underground carpark, pulled up beside a double set of glass doors.

"You can leave the bag in the car if you prefer." Stephen had got out, come round to open John's door. "It will be perfectly safe."

"I'll bring it with me." John had no doubt that it would be guarded, but it was his responsibility, not Mycroft's.

"That's fine. This way, please."

Four floors above ground floor and the carpark level; the lift stopped at the third. Polished floors, carved wooden furniture and high ceilings; John couldn't quite work out if these were extremely upmarket offices or someone's home. Did Mycroft live here? Somehow he hadn't expected to have been brought to the man's home without warning. There didn't seem to be anyone else about.

The small room they stopped in had a sofa, a low coffee table and a fire in the wrought iron grate.

"Make yourself comfortable, please. I'll be back very shortly." Stephen disappeared through a door in the far wall. John sat down, bag by his feet, and stared at the fire for a bit.

He was tired. He could do without this. All of this; the detour, the wait, the argument to come. Sherlock was not out of control. Sherlock could possibly be considered to be playing slightly sadistic games but only with the man who'd done, and deserved, far worse. It was no concern of anyone else's, no threat to anyone else. And as for himself and Sherlock, that was their own business.

John stood up, restless, walked to the window, looked down on the greenery below. It was starting to get dark, blinds and curtains drawn in the opposite houses with occasional slivers of light shining around the edges. The door opened and he looked round. Stephen again, with a tray.

"I'm afraid something has come up. There may be a short wait. I'm very sorry."

The tea tray went down on the table. "I would recommend leaving it a couple more minutes to brew."Stephen was back at the door again.

"Hang on. How long a wait could this be?"

"Hopefully very short. If you'll excuse me, I'm required elsewhere." And the door closed.

This was stupid. If he was going to be abducted the man could at least have the manners to be here.

John sighed, crossed to the tea tray, eyed the slice of fruit cake. The tea, once brewed, turned out to be Earl Grey. Not a favourite; John always thought it tasted musty, but it would do. There was a choice of milk or lemon. No sugar; doubtless his preferences were listed somewhere on Mycroft's databases. The man should have known he didn't like Earl Grey, but maybe that was crediting him with too great a degree of omnipotence. There was a folded copy of the Times as well.

The pot held three cups. They and all the cake was gone, the paper had been read and still no sign of Mycroft, or Stephen. John reckoned he'd been waiting over half an hour. He tried the door that Stephen had gone through, found it locked. The door behind him was open; he could, he supposed, just walk out, get a taxi home. The thought of that was almost as annoying as the thought of waiting any longer. Maybe he ought to go looking for someone, tell them he was leaving.

Inspiration struck. He had a number for Mycroft, never used, pressed on him after the swimming pool "just in case". John pulled out his phone and started to text.

 _I am leaving now._

He picked up his coat and bag as the phone rang.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft's voice was unperturbed as usual, "Leaving where?"

"You tell me! You're the one that brought me here. I'm not prepared to sit around all evening drinking tea and waiting for you."

There was a slight pause. Then,

"Don't hang up. The trace will be faster with the line open. Can you tell me roughly where you are?"

Trace? "It's a gated..." The tone changed and he realised that he'd lost the connection. He dropped the bag, ran at full tilt back the way he'd come through the silent rooms, took the stairs next to the lift two and three at a time.

On the first floor stairwell there were three men waiting for him. He stopped his forward momentum somehow before running straight into them, turned back to find two more had emerged from the second floor onto the narrow stairs. One of them had a gun. The other one was Stephen.

"Doctor Watson." The man's warm voice hadn't changed at all. "I think you would be more comfortable in the waiting room, don't you? I can have some more tea brought down if you'd like."

John had stopped between the two sets of men. Earl Grey. Fruit cake. Want to kidnap a stupid, _stupid_ man? Obtain a car like Mycroft's, an assistant that could well have been Mycroft's, and simply drive up to John Watson and wait for him to get in. He'll go where he's told, eat what he's given, in blind ignorance and criminal carelessness.

There wasn't anywhere to run to. They'd shoot him if he tried to break through; maybe not to kill, but bullets ripping through flesh always have that potential. They would undeniably stop him. He grimaced at Stephen. "No tea, thank you," started walking back up the stairs.

By the time he was back in the waiting room, the men had disappeared. Stephen smiled at him, picked up the tray. "It shouldn't be long now. I am very sorry that you've had to wait."

John could doubtless take the man out, hindered as he was by the tray. At least one gun, somewhere behind him, unknown forces in the room in front and far too high to jump from a window. He sat down instead, watched Stephen disappear. He must have dropped his phone when he ran; it was nowhere to be found.

This was an altogether different kind of wait. He hadn't been brought here for an uncomfortable argument about Sherlock's morals and a lift home. Absolutely no doubt in his mind who was behind that door. Last time he'd been kidnapped by Moriarty, the man had barely paid him any heed at all, other than to cover him in explosives and threaten to detonate them. Of course, last time was before he'd hurt the man, screwed him over, dumped him in the street and mocked him. He undoubtedly had far more of Jim Moriarty's attention now than was at all safe.

Sherlock hadn't seen it that way. Sherlock thought that John was safer, now that it was personal, now that Moriarty saw them as a joint threat. Which was all very well, but he wasn't a joint anything right now. He was on his own.

Still, Sherlock's way was the only way to play it. Defiant, threatening, conciliatory, rational,none would do anything but get him killed or at least very badly hurt, and he didn't want to think about how badly Jim Moriarty might choose to hurt him. His role was already set, and he wasn't sure how he could possibly sustain it but it was the only one which was going to keep Moriarty's interest long enough for him to get out of here.

Decision made, he didn't want to think about it any more, about how little chance he had. So he picked up the paper instead, found a pen from his bag, started filling in the small crossword, remembering Moriarty in their living room completing the cryptic one. Maybe the trace had worked and the cavalry was on it's way.

When he heard the door open he counted in his head, one, two, three, four, staring unfocussed at the half finished crossword, then looked up.

Stephen, smiling. "If you'll come this way now." A gesture to the door he'd just come through.

John looked at him. He didn't want to go. Flounder, 11 across; he filled it in. That gave a D for five down. You hold your ground, Sherlock had said.

"Five minutes. I'll finish this first."

Stephen's smile looked, for a second, distinctly shaky. "He's ready for you now." John wondered briefly how the man had ended up working for Moriarty, and if he wished right now that he didn't. Stephen had abducted him; he determined not to start feeling sorry for the guy. "He's kept me waiting for an hour. He can wait five minutes."

Stephen's smile was back, but definitely fixed now. "I will pass the message on."

"Thank you." John looked back down at the crossword.

He was left in peace, but he didn't manage to finish the puzzle. One word eluded him. Somehow despite everything he managed to feel annoyed about that, and he hung onto the feeling as a talisman as he got to his feet. Five minutes he'd said; he wasn't going to sit here until he was dragged. Think about the puzzle, John, he told himself. That last word.

It kept him moving forward, at least. Outside was a short corridor, lined with closed doors, just one left open a little way along and across from him. He paused at that doorway to assess the room beyond. Bookshelves lined the high walls; dark spines, old books, a traditional library. A large table running the length of the room had a few scattered books on it. The roaring fire at the far end dwarfed the one he'd been waiting beside. Two leather armchairs were pulled up beside it, and in the left hand one the small figure of Jim Moriarty curled up, legs underneath him, reading.

No sign of Stephen, or of anyone else. John pulled all his courage up and walked beside the length of the table towards the other man.

"Good book?" His voice didn't shake.

"Idiotic. Like all the rest of them." Moriarty tossed the book into the fire, causing the logs to shift and the flames hiss. He was wrapped in a sleek red dressing gown. "What's the last clue?"

"Inspiring fear. 7 letters, A, e, o, e."

A wide smile. "Come on, Johnny boy. That's easy."

John shrugged. "It will come to me soon." He sat down in the other chair, hands on his knees, stretched out his stiff leg towards the fire. The book was charring in the flames, a mass of pages blackening and falling into ash. Spine down, its title couldn't be read.

"Will it?" Moriarty was smiling at him, head on one side. "Did Stephen look after you well?"

John knew that he had to take the offensive, however crazy it felt to be poking the quiescent tiger. Don't let Moriarty get bored.

"Is that your idea of a date, Jim? Tea and cake and a pretty face to serve it? I've got far better waiting for me at home. Not interested."

Moriarty blinked slowly, theatrically. "That's unnecessarily rude, John, after the pains I've gone to. I might be offended."

John shrugged. "I might not care. Not everyone is as sluttish as you. How are the bruises?"

"Want me to show you?"

"I've seen as much of your scrawny arse as I intend to. I've got better," he repeated, deliberately, "at home."

It was easier than he had imagined it would be to play this game. He really did despise the other man's posturing. For a moment he felt in control. Then Moriarty flicked his head back oddly, showing the length of his plump white neck.

"John," he murmured, "Such a sweet romantic. Just imagine how I might send you back to him. Think your little affair would survive?"

John's spine was cold. It had been bound to come.

"Any two bit villain with a couple of thugs for hire could do that. That's not going to impress him." He'd had that line ready. Moriarty's vanity was John's only defence against everything that six men could do to him.

That got a high laugh. "That's almost clever, pet. Almost. Of course it would sound better if you weren't absolutely terrified."

John wasn't going to deny that, not with his body giving itself away in half a dozen telltales. He had no intention of lying to Moriarty in any way that could get him caught. There were rules to this game.

"Occupational hazard. Sherlock and I piss people off all the time. Some day some cocky little crook is going to want payback. Seems today that's you. Just don't pretend you're doing anything original."

Moriarty leaned right back in the chair, eyes narrowed, watching him. "You might beg a little better than that. Transparent, clumsy and desperate."

John snorted at that. "Beg? Not likely. I'm just telling you what I think of your threats. What Sherlock will think." Not that he wouldn't grovel if he thought it would get him out of here in one piece. It wouldn't.

Moriarty's eyes glittered, as cold as his tone was cheerful. "Doing things that Sherlock wouldn't approve of might be considered the whole point of bringing you here."

John looked back into the flames to hide his dismay. Nothing remained of the book but the charred leather cover. He didn't have a weapon, but there was the fire; he could probably force the weaker man far enough into the flames to burn him badly. That wouldn't help with Stephen and the other men though, and if they didn't just shoot him they'd doubtless ensure that he suffered the same way. He didn't want to hurt Moriarty quite enough to bring that particular punishment down on himself.

He'd had his arm around Moriarty's throat once; he could do that again. It wouldn't get him out of the building, though; he wasn't strong or skilled enough to break the man's neck, and they'd rush him before he could choke the life from his hostage. Though he ached to dispel this fear driven adrenalin with a fight, his only hope was to draw things out as long as possible and put his trust in Mycroft's trace and Sherlock's deductive powers.

"The trace didn't work." Slow drawl. "Seems you'll stay for as long as I want you. And I think I do want you, dull as you are. I know it's embarrassing but I'm just a little bit of a stalker, you know. I like following Sherlock down all those dark passages."

John shuddered. That needed some sort of reply; he couldn't be a passive victim. Hold your corner.

"If that's what you want, it's going to take all your men out there to hold me down, because I don't put out for nasty little animals like you."

Not clever, but his heart was thudding too hard to be smart. And Moriarty was on his feet, close up. "Don't tease, Johnny boy. I'm getting far too excited already."

He didn't look excited, just smug. A hand slid up to John's cheek. "No-one's going to have to hold you down, silly boy. Not by the time we get that far."

"I don't think so." John's fingers snapped around Moriarty's wrist, pinching the soft flesh, feeling the fragile bones. Squeezing until the man hissed in pain. Reluctantly he let go again.

Moriarty pulled his wrist back, rubbed it. "You do enjoy that, don't you? Was that why you went into the Army? Don't look so ashamed, John. I can always find a use for a sadist with medical training. I'm sure Sherlock can too."

He had never taken pleasure in pain. Never before. But of course he would hurt the man now, any way he could, and enjoy it. Any small victory was worth having. Then he remembered Mycroft's oblique warnings. Moriarty corrupts. He wished acutely that he wasn't doing this alone. Things seemed so much more certain with Sherlock there.

Moriarty was watching him, head on one side, still rubbing his wrist. "You look lost, doctor. Time to check in with your lover."

John caught the tossed object automatically. A touch phone. He turned it over in his hands, watching Moriarty.

"Don't you want to let him know you're safe? He'll be worrying about you."

John wasn't safe, nothing like. But a call would give Sherlock data to work with. It might not be untraceable, for Sherlock, for Mycroft. There was nothing to be lost by calling.

It was answered on the second ring. "Sherlock." The voice was controlled. He would have talked to his brother, was no doubt expecting to hear from John's kidnapper.

"It's me." John was at a loss as to what else to say, with Moriarty close enough to touch. "I'm unhurt."

'So far' hung in the air. He didn't need to say it out loud.

"Where?"

John glanced at Moriarty's face. "I don't think I can give you that information."

Sherlock was brusque. "Just ask him where."

John looked down at the phone in his hand, then up at the other man. "He wants me to ask you where."

He expected a sneering refusal. Moriarty was taking pains to keep them hidden. Instead he saw a grin of pure malignant delight.

"Outer circle, anti-clockwise." He had leaned over to speak into the phone.

Oh shit no! "No. Don't be stupid, Sherlock. That's not going to help."

"Anti-clockwise." Sherlock was matter of fact. "Got it." And the phone went dead.

He couldn't let this happen. John stabbed over and again at the redial button, but the signal didn't return. In the end he dropped it, defeated.

"Why," he asked of the only other person who might understand what went on in Sherlock's head "would he do that?"

Moriarty was still looking pleased with himself. "The thing I like best about dear Sherlock is that he doesn't need all those tedious threats and demonstrations. I certainly can't be bothered to explain anything to you."

He raised his voice."Stephen!"

"Yes sir?" The young man must have been waiting at the door.

"Moving out. He'll be coming up to the camera gap before the Zoo in fifteen minutes."

"Yes sir." He stepped aside to let Moriarty pass, came further into the room. Behind him the first of three men took up position at the doorway, gun in his hand. The other two came to flank John.

"It will I'm afraid be desirable to blindfold you for the journey. However the process will not cause significant discomfort if you co-operate."

A proper blindfold, thick and dark. John didn't want it, but he was outnumbered and there was that gun. Though he imagined that Moriarty would disapprove of anyone actually shooting him yet.

"Where are we going?"

"Not far. If you wouldn't mind putting this on, Doctor?"

If he kept them occupied they might miss the rendezvous with Sherlock. Someone might persuade Sherlock that this was crazy. Mycroft possibly, or Lestrade, before he could arrange another one. That was enough justification for John, who had reached the point of really needing to hit someone.

He swung an elbow up into the face of the man on his left, brought his fist round to the other man's stomach, ducked behind the armchair. No gunfire yet, just curses from the first man. John had the fire to his back, one chair in front of him and the other on his left.

"Doctor Watson, please. There is nothing to be gained from this." Stephen was standing in front of the chair, looking mildly perturbed. One of the other men was wiping blood from his nose. The second didn't look as if the blow to the stomach had had any lasting effect; he was clearly awaiting instructions from Stephen.

Interesting. Chain of command went that way. The fair haired young man wan't just bait for traps then. All the more reason to keep him from going after Sherlock.

John found it wan't difficult at all to seem scared. "He's going to kill me, probably torture me first. Why should I co-operate? I might as well let you shoot me here."

"No one is going to kill you." Stephen sounded calm, reassuring. John wondered if anyone in his position would be reassured merely by a tone of voice.

"So you want to explain what he is going to do, then? What he wants with me?" Mostly to keep the man talking, though any clues as to what was going on here would be welcome.

"I'm afraid that you'll have to speak to the professor himself about that. Right now you need to come with us. We really don't want to cause you any discomfort in the process, but we would really like you to use the blindfold en route. There will be no need of it at the other end."

The man with the bloody nose appeared to be back to full operation again. All they needed to do was to pull the chair away and grab him. Fighting did not look promising.

Stall. "I need to visit the gents before I go anywhere. That's if you really want to avoid accidents."

Stephen glanced down at his watch. "Of course. If you'd come this way." They didn't grab him as he came out. For some reason Stephen really did prefer having his cooperation over the brute force option. Instead they escorted him to a marbled bathroom; a large one fortunately, since the three without guns all crowded in with him. The gunman waited in the corridor; John imagined that there were instructions about keeping the gun well out of reach. He wasn't yet desperate enough to contemplate trying to grab a loaded weapon off its owner, but he supposed that he might get that way eventually. It appeared that no one was taking the chance.

Unzipped, John stared at the marble, did nothing, let the seconds tick by. The quiet cough behind him got louder, then "One minute, Doctor Watson, then I'm afraid we must risk accidents."

Afghanistan had taught him how to urinate under stress and in company. He had drunk a great deal of tea; he waited until most of the minute was up, performed, zipped up and washed his hands, slowly and thoroughly.

They were letting him play these games; that surprised him. Stephen had glanced at his watch again, was clearly worried about the time and yet no one had just grabbed John and dragged him out. He'd thumped the guys pretty heavily and neither had laid a hand on him in retaliation. Either he'd just met the wussiest bunch of kidnappers ever or they were operating under instructions not to rough him up.

John took his time with the towel. Now, were the instructions 'not at all' or 'only if necessary'? With Moriarty out of the way temporarily at least and these men clearly disinclined to get physical, he was feeling considerably less helpless.

The men let him leave the bathroom. Stephen set out down a corridor, looked back to check that he was following. John wasn't; he had just been struck by revelation.

No-one had touched him, apart from Moriarty's hand to his cheek. No, more than that. No-one had directly threatened him. He'd assumed the men and the gun were there to compel his obedience, and they'd clearly wanted him to assume that. But what if Stephen's circumlocutions were the exact truth? That they'd like him to don the blindfold, come with them, but they weren't going to force him?

This was Moriarty, who had no compunctions about mass slaughter. It seemed unlikely that he'd just let John walk out, but it was worth a try. Stephen was heading towards the stairs; he followed quietly.

"The blindfold would be useful at this point." Stephen had stopped in the waiting room, John's bag and coat still there.

"No." He picked up his possessions, walked towards the man in the doorway with the gun, who moved to let him past. OK. Seemed he was right. John didn't understand it but he wasn't hanging around if he didn't have to. He resisted the impulse to run, walked steadily towards the stairwell. The men were flanking him, not trying to obstruct.

On the stairwell Jim Moriarty was waiting, fully dressed. John felt a sharp twinge of apprehension. Had it been a game, to let him get this far?

"Sherlock is already in a car. You won't be able to contact him."

John glared at him. "Come on, then, Jim, threaten him. Tell me how you're going to torture him if I don't come with you. Coerce me."

Moriarty laughed. "I wasn't sure that you'd work it out at all. Clever pet." The man stepped aside, gestured him past. "The front door's open. You scurry off home then. Any messages for him? I imagine he won't get home tonight."

Moriarty had men with guns. Moriarty might turn vicious at any moment, without warning. The sensible thing to do would be to get the hell out of here, go to Mycroft and the Yard, use what he knew to help them track down and rescue Sherlock.

"There's no point to the blindfold," he pointed out. "If Sherlock's not unconscious he'll know exactly where the car takes him, blind or not."

"It was amusing to see if you'd wear it, though."

"Can we get moving? The less time I have to spend in your company the better." There was no way that he was walking away while Moriarty had Sherlock. It didn't need threats to make him get in the waiting car.

The drive was a long one, out towards Essex. John read the road signs, was pretty sure that he could retrace the route. Moriarty was in the front car, with Stephen, two men and the possibly-not-a-hostage following. The gun was still in clear evidence. John imagined that he was meant to feel unsettled by it. He mainly felt irritated. He'd been jerked around successfully by Moriarty again; if he'd worked out the rules earlier, Sherlock wouldn't have got himself picked up and they could both be at home right now instead of heading towards a rendezvous where, like as not, Moriarty was going to revert to type with unpleasant consequences.

Onto country roads, then into a long drive up to a farmhouse. There was already a car in the farmyard, and as he got closer he could see an unmistakeable figure leaning against the bonnet in the light from the open house door. John's heart was pounding again as he watched Moriarty's car draw up next to the other one, the man get out and cross to Sherlock. His car stopped and he opened the door, not waiting for Stephen's instructions, drew himself up straight and went to over to greet his flatmate.

Sherlock was frowning at him, not annoyed, more puzzled. "You don't have the air of a kidnap victim, John. Yet you did on the phone."

"John," Moriarty said cheerfully, "is here entirely of his own accord. Isn't that right, Johnny boy?"

"Jim," John snapped, "is playing childish games. But yes, I agreed to come. You and I can go home now."

"Did you know there was a man with a gun behind you?" Sherlock sounded curious.

"Yes."

"But it doesn't worry you. So you've reached a deal of some sort."

John wondered what sort of deal Sherlock was imagining. Did this look like betrayal? Moriarty replied before he could. "I didn't expect the pet to get it, but I thought the world's foremost detective might work it out. Shall we go in?" He strutted off towards the front door.

Sherlock looked across at John. "Give me some data here, John. What happened?"

John shrugged. "He wanted me to think I was being held by force, but none of his people even threatened me. I don't know what he's playing at, Sherlock, but I think he really would have let me leave."

"Ha!" Sherlock bounced on his toes. "Of course. Come on!" He strode rapidly after Moriarty.

Moriarty was waiting for them inside the door, "So slow," he complained and he was up the wide staircase. John looked back; the man with the gun was waiting at the doorway.

A bedroom, and a kingsize bed made up in red and black. And candles. "Well?" Jim sat on the bed.

"An invitation would have been simpler." Sherlock stopped just inside the room, John beside him.

"Invitation!" Moriarty was scathing. "Where's the fun in that?"

"What if we walk out?"

"It's a cold dark night, neither of you have your phones and it's miles to the nearest house. There's every comfort here, including some rather good champagne, and in the morning I'll have Stephen drive you home."

"You do bribery then, if not coercion?" Sherlock seemed amused at that.

"Bribery is always allowed. I'm playing by all the rules here. Tell me that I get points for style."

"Not yet. You've brought your horses to water, Jim. How are you proposing to make them drink?"

"Make them?" Moriarty raised his eyebrows in surprise. He jumped off the bed and John took an involuntary step back. Moriarty wasn't going for him though. A hand reached around Sherlock's neck, pulling his head down, and Jim was on his toes kissing the taller man.

For a fraction of a moment Sherlock's limbs looked awkward. Then his hands clamped around Moriarty's shoulders. John tried to feel suitably nauseated, but managed only jealousy and a twinge in his groin. Damn, the sight of Sherlock kissing anyone was hot.

Sherlock was coming up for air. "Point made," he said, a touch breathless, to the man now sitting back on the bed. "I imagine John would like some food with his champagne. You don't seem to have bothered feeding him.

"There was cake," Moriarty sounded aggrieved. "Very good cake. I didn't want him whingeing later."

He grinned across at John. "You should have seen him though. The brave little soldier facing horrible torment. It was hilarious."

Sherlock didn't smile. "Don't push it. I might still conclude you've overplayed your hand. Indirect coercion was certainly used."

"So what? He's got a vivid imagination? Not my fault. No-one made him get in the car."

John loathed being talked about as if he were a child too young to be included in the conversation, but honestly, what could he say, apart from "I hate you" and "I want to go home"? Sherlock had decided that they were staying, without so much as a flicker in his direction. He wasn't going to leave on his own; he'd decided that, two nights ago. He wasn't going to argue with Sherlock in front of Moriarty, not unless he had to. He'd ended up here out of carelessness and stupidity, while Sherlock had come deliberately into danger after him.

With grace. The though, the word surprised him. He was used to thinking of Sherlock as graceful, but this wasn't a physical thing. Sherlock hadn't railed against Moriarty for the revealed deceptions, threatened revenge or even sneered. He accepted it; his enemy's plan had succeeded precisely this time and here they were, on cue; Sherlock might as well get what he wanted out of it, which seemed at the moment to be champagne and sex. It made John's inclination to anger and defiance seemed crude and out of place. Childish. Which, given Moriarty's behaviour, seemed distinctly unfair.

Still, there was something to be said for keeping this at the level of a game, with rounds won and lost. If Moriarty had just wanted revenge for being so thoroughly screwed over two nights ago then John might well have been tied up and screaming somewhere right now. Instead the man had decided that getting even involved outwitting them. John wasn't going to push him into the torture option; there was still an armed man downstairs. Let Moriarty win, give him his reward, get home safely, watch Sherlock plan the next round and hope to survive it.

For all that Sherlock seemed to be prepared to enjoy himself, John was pretty sure that it wasn't going to be nearly as much fun to be on the losing side. Still, there were the two of them. We, Sherlock had said.

So. Back the man up. "It was good enough, as cake goes, but it hardly makes up for a missed meal. Every comfort, you said."

Moriarty glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes until dinner is served. A man used to the deprivations of active service should be able to wait that long. Just how soft have you got, John?"

"I'd prefer not wait around in your company, that's certain."

Moriarty was temporarily distracted from replying by a text message. He looked up again, teeth bared. "Then it seems that you're fortunate. Stephen will fetch you both for dinner. Please don't bother dressing up, just for me." He reached the door, turned with an eyebrow raised. "I know you two are eager new lovers, but really, I wouldn't recommend indulging quite yet. Your choice, of course, but that's my suggestion."

As the door closed, Sherlock was darting around the room with an energy familiar to John from dozens of crime scenes. John could make out only fast mutterings.

"Will the room be bugged?"

"There's a camera over the door. Probably at least two more to get full coverage, plus mikes." Sherlock was delving under the bed. He stuck a mussed up head out to say, "Not worth the time and effort to find and disable them. No private conversion, I'm afraid."

"Ok." It was a shame because John could really have done with one right then. Still, private or not, there was something he needed to say. He spoke to Sherlock's rear end, trying not to get sidetracked into considering that further. Not here and now.

"I'm sorry about all this. Getting into that car-I don't know why I did it."

"Conditioning." A muffled voice. "My brother is an idiot. I can't remember the last time he was quite that stupid. He is suitably remorseful; not that that's any help now."

A remorseful Mycroft? "It wasn't really his fault."

Sherlock emerged to glare at John. "Of course it was. You wouldn't have got into an unmarked car with unidentified strangers four months ago. Simple conditioning. The man even likes to call himself a behaviourist, you know. Idiot."

John thought that last epithet was aimed at Mycroft and not him, but he didn't think he'd check. He wasn't sure that conditioning made him seem much better that sheer stupidity had, but Sherlock didn't seem to be annoyed with him directly, anyway, despite their situation.

Why Sherlock had come, what would happen next, whether he thought that they'd be able to leave; all that John judged too sensitive for Moriarty's ears. He'd made what poor apology he could, so he sat quiet and watched Sherlock cover every inch of the room. Sherlock's findings were also not to be overheard it seemed; he didn't share them with John.

Finally Sherlock turned towards where John sat on the ridiculous red and black bedding.

"Done?" John asked.

"Done with that." Sherlock had that particular smile again, and John felt a surge of desire. Not the time or place, he would have said. Not with surveillance cameras and Moriarty's express warning. The warning, he thought, was probably what Sherlock was reacting to. Catalyst.

Sod the cameras. Sod Moriarty. He reached for Sherlock, pulled him down on the bed beside him, and wrapped his arms around the man's torso. They hadn't done this, he thought. Not just lying together on a bed, kissing. Even this bed...it was good. Fantastic. Sherlock had a leg wedged between his thighs and their bodies were moving slowly, rhythmically together but the other man's hands weren't at his clothing but round his shoulders. Pretty much just kissing, then. Sherlock was playing to the audience again, but John was past his pride about that by now. If that was what Sherlock needed to turn him on John could tolerate the idea of Moriarty watching.

He wasn't yet sure just how much more he was going to be expected to tolerate. Jim had kissed Sherlock and both men had clearly liked it. He must have let his thoughts show because Sherlock moved to kissing John's neck, working his way up close to his ear.

"Don't fret, John. You're sufficiently proficient. Just avoid overreacting."

That wasn't a great deal of comfort. Sherlock's mouth on his, and Sherlock's hands smoothing over his clothed buttocks, and Sherlock's erection grinding slowly against his thigh, trapped leg pushing against his own hardness were however sufficient distraction for the moment. God, the man's sweat smelt good; how had he not noticed that before? Kissing was fine but he was beginning to think that more would be better still.

The rap on the door startled him; for a moment he'd forgotten where they were.

"Come in." Sherlock didn't bother to unwrap himself from around John. Of course not; this was provocation. Stephen didn't raise so much as an eyebrow at the men on the bed. "Dinner is about to be served, if you would care to come with me."

Sherlock's attention had switched to the fair haired young man. John wriggled out from his embrace, sat up. He resisted the temptation to be polite. This was Moriarty's man. "You can wait outside until we're ready."

"Of course."

"Wait." Sherlock had sat up. "You're Stephen. And you were in the car that picked John up."

"Yes."

"Hmm." Sherlock turned round, picked up something tiny from a pillow. Hair. "You've been here, too. Just following orders, or was it your choice?"

"Not," Stephen said, still calmly, "any of your business, Mr Holmes."

"You think not?" He smiled, thin and fast. "You can wait outside now."

Alone, or the semblance of alone, he muttered to John "Watch that one." He didn't elucidate; he appeared too busy adjusting his clothing, running a quick hand through his hair. "Ready?"

"I guess so."

Dinner was laid out on the substantial dining room table; three place settings, one on each long side and one at the head, already occupied. Moriarty stood up as they came in, a facsimile of the perfect host. The smell of food was making John feel hungry, rather to his surprise. He had expected to be too keyed up to eat, but the interlude with Sherlock seemed to have settled his nerves and not even the sight of Moriarty smiling lizard-like at the two of them was enough to shake him out of appetite. He nodded easily at the man and took his place opposite Sherlock.

The roast, cooked to perfection, was served expertly by Stephen. The wine was excellent. Sherlock was eating, as much as John had ever seen him eat. John took his cue from that, didn't concern himself with drugs or poisons. They were entirely in Moriarty's power anyway.

For a long time they ate in silence. Moriarty seemed to be quietly hugging himself with glee; his silence was welcome, if unexpected. Sherlock was also unusually quiet, picking at his plate with a concentration that John had never seen him apply to mere food before. John had a glass of wine, then another, then declined any more. His instinct to stay clearheaded in danger had just about won over the urge to get drunk enough to get him through the rest of the night.

Plates cleared, Stephen brought round the brandy decanter and wide crystal glasses. Sherlock took a sniff, smiled.

"Courvoisier. Imperial?"

"Come on, Sherlock. Being a master criminal is rather more... lucrative than scurrying around Scotland Yard. Erte no 3."

"Really?" Sherlock took a sip from the thick crystal. "Splendid. Try some, John."

"I've had enough already, thanks."

"No." Sherlock was looking directly over the table at him. "I don't think you have. Take a glass of this brandy, which is doubtless better than any you have had before or will again."

Because it was Sherlock, John sipped at his glass. It was far richer than he'd imagined, and, he suspected, extremely strong. Both men were watching him with approval and that unanimity of purpose unsettled him. He thought that he could imagine why they wanted him drunk.

He drained half the glass, pushed the rest away, with inward reluctance. It did taste spectacular. "Brandy's never been my tipple, I'm afraid." If both men knew he was lying, neither challenged him about it.

"Stephen will bring the champagne upstairs. Shall we, darlings?"

"Indeed." Sherlock stood up, waited for John at the door. The hand on his shoulder was some reassurance, at least.

Upstairs Moriarty opened the door to a shower room. "Five minutes. Don't be too naughty, boys." He closed the door behind him and the sound of water hitting the ground started up.

John spread his hands out at Sherlock. "Well?"

"Well." Sherlock didn't seem to have any of John's apprehension. His arm slid around John's waist, pulled him close. "Relax," the voice in his ear said firmly. "Just co-operate and he's got no leverage." Lips nuzzled at his earlobe. "It won't be boring, at least."

Oh, so that was all right then. As long as Sherlock wasn't bored. John twisted to catch Sherlock's lips, wondering what would happen if they just ignored Moriarty and got on with this.

The shower door opened some time later. Moriarty tossed a thick black towel to Sherlock, identical to the one now round his waist. Sherlock disappeared into the shower room without comment.

Moriarty pulled a dressing table drawer open, tossed something at John. "Make yourself useful, pet." He sprawled face down on the bed.

John opened the vial, sniffed at the contents. Scented oil. Various uses came to mind; he wondered what Moriarty intended.

"A little over-eager, aren't you? Just massage oil."

Oh. Co-operate, Sherlock had said, and at least this way he stayed on top. He settled himself against Moriarty's towelled thighs, poured a little oil on each hand.

Jim's skin was slightly waxy, oddly hairless. Bruising across the right shoulder bore witness to their previous encounter. John slid his fingers up the man's spine, dug hard into the bruised muscle. He was rewarded by a flinch. Moriarty didn't protest but John didn't try it again.

It was a while since he'd done this. As he relaxed the effect of the brandy became stronger. Face down, Moriarty could have been anyone. Aroused already, John started taking pleasure in the feel of oiled muscle under his hands, the slight noises from underneath him

The touch on his shoulder startled him. Sherlock, also half naked. "I'll take over. Shower."

John undressed awkwardly in the large shower room, trying to keep the oil off his clothes. The shower was hot and powerful; he stood under it, eyes closed, hand loosely around his erection, picturing Sherlock in the other room. He stopped himself before it turned into something more definite; he had things to do out there. He dried himself on the remaining towel, wrapped it around his waist and opened the door.

Things had progressed. Moriarty's towel had come loose and Sherlock was kneeling between his naked thighs, his massage considerably more intimate. God, those hands; John's cock twitched firecely against the soft towelling.

John settled himself behind Sherlock, picked up the vial from the bed. Sherlock's shoulders rolled luxuriantly under his hands. He didn't have the patience to stay above the waist for long; soon his fingers were sliding down smooth thighs.

Moriarty rolled abruptly over and away from Sherlock. " I'm forgetting my manners. A good host doesn't let his guests do all the work." He slid off the bed, walked around behind John. "Shall we make you squeal, darling?"

John ignored him. Sherlock had twisted to face him and those long fingers were wrapped around his cock.

"God" he murmured, leaned up to kiss Sherlock. Hands behind him were running across his back, sliding around the scar tissue and down again. It didn't hurt; he concentrated instead on what Sherlock was doing.

Most of the way there and he stopped being able to ignore Moriarty completely. A finger was pushing smoothly inside him; he wriggled to dislodge it unsuccessfully. Hell with it; John decided he didn't really care. He let himself imagine for a moment that it was Sherlock's cock, and came panting into the man's mouth.

When he pulled away, he could still feel the finger. No, two. Sherlock was looking at Moriarty over his shoulder.

"Back up" Sherlock instructed. "Feet on the floor."

John could see where this was going, was still too full of endomorphins to care. Let the man have his fun, then. John had after all had his, and Sherlock was watching out for him. He slid back off the bed, felt Moriarty's erection hard against his buttocks.

"Bend forward." Sherlock had shifted forwards on the bed, was kneeling, knees spread. Bending over would put John's mouth in roughtly the same place as Sherlock's groin. He snorted slightly; the man was not subtle. Still it would distract him from Moriarty, and Sherlock probably deserved a blow job for those skilled fingers. He grinned up at Sherlock, bent over, lips apart.

It wasn't quite distraction enough. Jim was clumsy penetrating him; he'd be sore tomorrow. Still the noises that Sherlock was making made up for it. He ran the fingers of his right hand under the man's balls, sucked hard.

Fingers clamped around his wrist, pulling his arm backwards to lie flat across his back. He yelped, more in surprise than pain, waited for Sherlock to protest. A couple of heartbeats and he realised that it wasn't going to happen. This was payback. Pinned down, he could hardly move his head; Sherlock started rocking gently onto him instead, picking up the rhythm of the other man behind him. He felt uncomfortably helpless.

Then Moriarty hissed something at Sherlock that he didn't catch and Sherlock surged up on his knees and forward. John gagged, used his free hand to push the base of Sherlock's cock away from him, far enough to breathe at least. What the fuck was Sherlock doing?

His arm was ripped up and back to meet the other one behind his back and he lurched forward onto Sherlock's erection. Bile filled his mouth. For a moment he thought that Sherlock had got the message as the man pulled back, only to push into John's mouth again. The noises above him became clear; they were kissing. His nose was forced into rough pubic hair; he gasped for breath around the thrusts, steady from Sherlock, hard from Moriarty. He'd just about decided that he was going to bite the bastard when his mouth was flooded and Sherlock's twitching cock softened. He was rammed four more times harshly by Moriarty until that too stopped and the pressure holding his arms behind him ceased.

John lifted his head, spat sour wine and ejaculate on the covers. Then he pushed himself upright.

"Here." Sherlock pushed a crystal flute into his hand and he sipped at the liquid automatically, desperate to get the sour taste out of his mouth. Sweet and fizzy; the champagne; he hadn't even seem it arrived. He drained the glass and staggered to the bathroom. Cold water on his face and around his mouth helped a little. He pulled his clothes on, took a breath, opened the door to the bedroom and walked straight through it to the corridor.

Moriarty was laughing, high pitched. Sherlock was at his shoulder. "John." His voice was a warning that John ignored in favour of pulling the door to behind him, in the man's face.

The farmyard was still lit from several windows. John half ran past the cars. His bag, in there somewhere; he felt a moment of regret for it. The long driveway was dark; the night was overcast and the only light was the glow of a town in the distance. Not London, he thought; they'd come too far for that. He stumbled awkwardly down the long road, nervous of veering into the unseen ditches at each side.

On the ground from yet another fall, he twisted to noise behind him, and the sweep of headlights. His hand closed around something solid as he stood. The car stopped behind him and the door opened.

"Doctor Watson. You can't possibly walk in the dark like this. Let me drive you home." Stephen came around to the front of the car, hand outstretched. "Get into the car, please."

No. Not again. John swung his fist, with whatever it was that he'd picked up, into the side of the man's head and he fell. A brick, he thought, dropping it, looking down on the man sprawled on the driveway. He ought to check that the man was still breathing. Instead he climbed into the driving seat, turned the keys still in the ignition and drove forward, swerving to avoid the body. Someone would find Stephen.

The car wasn't much easier to keep out of the ditches than he had been. When he reached the the road he slammed the brakes on, smashed his fist into the steering wheel and swore.

If he drove away now, Sherlock was a hostage. Bloody Sherlock, who shouldn't even have come. He yanked the gears into reverse and turned to see behind him as he reversed back up to the farmhouse. He'd forgotten about Stephen until the car went straight over him, right rear wheel, then right front.

John slammed the brakes on, sat for a second behind the wheel, shaking. The feel of the impact; he remembered the way the man had been lying in the road. Chest, or head. Stephen was dead. Had probably been killed by the brick; had certainly been crushed by the car. There was nothing to do but to get Sherlock out of the house and get the fuck away from here before Moriarty found out that their non-violent little encounter had turned lethal.

He backed up all the way into the farmyard. He ought to have a clever plan but alcohol and shock had done for that. Instead he slammed his palm onto the button at the centre of the steering wheel and left it there as the car horn screamed into the night.

A painfully long time with nothing happening, then a figure was silhouetted against the farmhouse door. John recognised the flapping coat and breathed again. Sherlock climbed into the car without speaking, stayed quiet until John swerved to miss the dark shape on the drive.

"What was that?"

"Stephen."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

A sharp hiss. "John..."

"Just," John said, pulling out onto the road, "shut up, Sherlock." Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him and shut up.

The first village they came to had a payphone. John pulled into the carpark behind the village hall, out of sight, stopped the engine.

"What's Mycroft's number?"

Sherlock turned to look at him for the first time."Not a good idea."

"You've got a better one?"

"Home."

"No. I'm not letting him get away, not this time. You're going to give me Mycroft's number, or you can bloody well walk back to London."

Sherlock sighed, reeled off a string of digits. "I warn you, you're going to regret this."

"So far tonight I've got us both kidnapped, I've let a psychopath fuck me and I've killed an unarmed man. Phoning your brother is unlikely to come in high on the list of regrets." John slammed the car door with rather more force than required, stalked off to the phone box. It was too conspicuous, but he couldn't see a good alternative.

Mycroft answered the phone on the first ring. "Yes."

"It's John. I'm in a phonebox."

"Yes, I have your location."

"Good. Our car's parked behind the village hall. Moriarty's in a farmhouse. Our route was point four miles along the drive, right turn, one point two miles to T junction, right, point eight miles into the village, left turn into the hall."

"Got it. Forces?"

"Moriarty, at least five- no, sorry, four others, at least one handgun."

"Civilians?"

"Not that I know of." He briefly wondered who had done the cooking.

"I'll send a car for you."

"I've got the car they picked me up in. I'm not getting in any other cars with strangers tonight, Mycroft."

A pause then, "Understood. Will you please take an escort?"

Given that John didn't actually know the route back home, he couldn't see the harm in that, "Yes".

Mycroft's voice turned hesitant. "Is Sherlock hurt?"

John snorted in surprise. "Hurt? No. He's sulking. He wanted to stay at the party longer."

"Thank you." Mycroft's voice had become firm again. "Get out of sight, wait for the escort."

Sherlock hadn't moved. John slid back into the driver's seat. "He's sending an escort."

"Hmph."

John sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling queasy. Eventually he spoke.

"This is a win/win for you, isn't it? You win a round, you get off on watching me hurt him. You lose, you get off on watching him hurt me."

"I wasn't going to let you get hurt." Sherlock objected.

"You failed on that one. Not that you were in a position to notice."

"Come on, John. You're tougher than that. He wasn't particularly rough."

"That wasn't the point."

"So what was? Tht you lost control of the situation? You got yourself kidnapped, John. Not my doing."

"I never expected you to save me, Sherlock. I just didn't expect you to join in on the other side."

Sherlock didn't answer that one. John went back to waiting in silence. Then his head lifted.

"Is that?" He opened the door, stood up, peering into the dark. "It's a fucking Hawk!"

The plane screamed overhead and a few seconds later the sky brightened and the ground shook.

Sherlock was out of the car with him.

"That was a ground attack!" John was dumbfounded.

"You called my brother, What did you expect, a couple of panda cars?"

A car screamed through the village, and then another. The jet was coming back again. Here, in the dark, he could have been in Afghanistan again.

"Nobody," he yelled at Sherlock, "gets to bomb Essex! No-one has that sort of authority at five minutes notice! Who the hell is your brother anyway?"

Sherlock waited for the plane to pass. "I knew he had a great deal of theoretical power. I didn't anticipate that he would use it for anything less than a serious threat to overthrow the government." He sounded shocked.

"Moriarty's a threat."

"Moriarty's a criminal." Sherlock glared at John. "Mine to deal with. Not Mycroft's."

A pause. "What is it, John?" Sherlock was fierce.

"If you're not willing to deal with Moriarty, that makes it his problem."

"What did you say to him?" Sherlock's voice had dropped.

"Nothing much." It hadn't been more than an annoyed aside, really.

"What?"

Nothing for it. "I said that you were sulking because you didn't want to leave the party."

A distant throb that John didn't need to look up to identify as Chinook helicopters.

"Well done, John." Sherlock's voice was almost inaudible. "You couldn't have made more of a mess of things if you'd tried."

Gravel crunched as a car turned into the carpark, followed by another. John got back into the car, started the engine. No certainty that these would be who they claimed.

A dark figure got out of the lead car, came over to the open window.

"Doctor Watson? We're here to get you out of here as soon as possible."

"Good. Shall we go?"

The man hesitated. "I would recommend that you let me drive. THere is a possibility of hostile action."

"I've driven under fire in Helmund Province," John snapped. "I think I can manage Essex."

Sherlock leant staight over him to speak to the man. "He wasn't over twice the legal limit driving in Afghanistan. He's far too drunk to drive safely." And to John, "This is our legitimate escort. Get in the back and let them do their job."

Drunk or not, John had sufficient control not to tell Sherlock what he thought of him in front of a bunch of paramilitaries. He moved into the back seat, seething. Sherlock, he noticed, didn't offer to come back there with him. No, Sherlock was making small talk with the driver. Polite conversation, no less, from Sherlock. John thought it was probably some form of insult aimed at him, but he was too tired and hazy to work out how. Despite everything, he fell asleep almost as soon as the car started moving.

"John?" Someone was calling his name, shaking at his arm. He woke fast, an old habit, sat up to look round. A row of cars in front of his front door and the upstairs lights all blazing.

Sherlock was still leaning over him. "John. Listen."

He muttered annoyance.

"Listen, John! You're drunk and angry and in shock and you want to tell someone about it. You mustn't. Let me talk to them."

He was pulling John out of the car. Someone took his arm on the other side; the driver? John stayed limp.

"Does he need a hospital?"

"He's not hurt, just drunk. He'll sleep it off."

They maneuvured him up the stairs. The living room was a blaze of light.

"I suggest the armchair." Mycroft.

"Bed." Sherlock objected.

"I don't think so. You've both got some questions to answer." They put him in the armchair and the driver left.

"You won't get anything out of him until morning."

"No?" Mycroft had come to peer at him as he sprawled in the chair. "How very odd. He was quite coherent an hour ago on the phone."

"He's ex-military, Mycroft. He's capable of significant feats under stress. However he's also human and it amused Moriarty to get him near paralytic."

"Hmm." Mycroft didn't sound convinced. "So tell me your story, Sherlock."

"No."

"I estimate the cost of tonight's little excursion to be somewhere over half a million pounds, excluding damage. I have people out there counting body parts. Some sort of explanation might be in order."

"I can explain that one. Your ridiculous overreaction. You knew we were clear of the place. You had the SAS at your disposal, and you decide on an airstrike. What did you do, panic?"

"I don't need you to tell me how to do my job." Mycroft's voice had stiffened.

"I suppose it's too much to hope for that your blunderings actually killed him?"

"There are bodies, or at least bits of them. Too early for identification."

Through half closed eyes John saw Sherlock snatch up his laptop. "I imagine my phone is another casualty of a thousand pound laser guided bomb. If he's out there, he'll use email."

He tapped at the keys, stared, sat back with a long sigh.

"What did he send?"

"Arrived four minutes ago." Mycroft crossed to look over the man's shoulder.

"Someone is a extraordinarily poor loser," he read aloud, precisely. "Tell Johnny boy that he owes me a boyfriend. I'll collect shortly."

"Unfortunate." Mycroft sounded shaken.

"It is not unfortunate." Sherlock had rounded on him. "It is criminal irresponsibility. I am doing my best to keep John alive here and you are sabotaging that, with everything from your stupid car pick-ups to your stupid bombs."

"And none of this has anything at all to do with your own propensities, I suppose? You're engaging in sexual intercourse with with him, Sherlock. Do you intend to make any real attempt to close him down before his next massacre? "

"Get out." Sherlock sounded tired. "I need to think. Come back tomorrow, if you must."

"I trust that John at least has learned something tonight. Until tomorrow, then." Footsteps down the stairs and the front door closing.

"You can wake up now."

John opened his eyes, struggled to sit upright. He felt like hell.

"Mycroft was right, yesterday."

"I never said he wasn't right. I said that I didn't care." Sherlock was frowning at the laptop, stabbing at the keys.

"Do you think that he's corrupting you? Us?"

"The term's meaningless. I'm in control of my actions, not him."

"He must be laughing though. I heard him laugh."

"Let him." Sherlock slammed the laptop closed. "Sooner or later we'll have him." He looked over at John. "Mycroft's wrong about that. I want him defeated once and for all. I want you safe."

"Yeah." John couldn't help that one sounding cynical. Sherlock strode over to look down on him.

"I mean it. You weren't unsafe, back there. Uncomfortable, I admit. I considered that, concluded that you were unlikely to object. It was, as far as I was aware, the sort of thing that sexual partners might experiment with."

God. Sherlock. Context. "You want to try something like that in our living room one evening, fine. I'll probably be up for it. But back there the last thing I needed was to feel more damn helpless."

"Yes." Sherlock considered him. "I should have taken that into account. Sorry."

Stephen and God knows how many more were dead because of it, and Moriarty was after revenge personally. Right now he wasn't sure that sorry was enough.

"Tomorrow. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

He closed his eyes, felt sleep dragging. Woke to find a blanket tucked around him and the long low notes of Sherlock's violin in the dark. Awesome, he thought. That was the answer.

The morning would be serious trouble from all directions. He was tempted to stay awake, just to put it off for longer, but in the end the music, soft and deceptive, lulled him back to sleep.

The End


End file.
